


Sombre

by QueenForADay



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Angst, Established Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Healing, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Injury, Injury Recovery, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, POV Jaskier | Dandelion, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Swearing, Witcher Potions (The Witcher)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-14 21:15:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28927146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenForADay/pseuds/QueenForADay
Summary: Gods, it’s quiet. He hates the quiet. It’s when the shadows slink out from the darker corners of his mind and start whispering things against the shell of his ear.--When Geralt gets hurt and goes into his healing sleeps, Jaskier is left alone in the silence. And he hates every second of it. All he can do is promise Geralt that they'll go somewhere kinder.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 12
Kudos: 125
Collections: MaMooRoo BIKM Bingo





	Sombre

Gods, it’s quiet. He hates the quiet. It’s when the shadows slink out from the darker corners of his mind and start whispering things against the shell of his ear. The hearth crackles behind them and through the floorboards, he can hear the faint murmurs of conversation from tavern patrons downstairs, still nursing their ales and meads and chattering among themselves. Jaskier was down there once, luring them into song and watching even the grouchiest and most sour-faced sailors get pulled up into a dance and sing-a-long.

And now he’s here, keeping a silent vigil over his Witcher. The candles perched on the bedside tables flicker, but he still has half a night’s worth of wax before they snuff themselves out. Maybe sleep will have come for him by then. Gods alive, he hopes so. His eyes strain, even now, as he watches Geralt’s chest slowly lift and fall; steady breaths taken, all reminding Jaskier perched nearby that he’s alive and still with him. His eyes are closed, brow smoothened out, and the acrid tang of poultice is slowly thinning and lilting away. Geralt is just sleeping, that’s all.

He does what he can to ignore the bandages and the blood beginning to speckle through them. He ignores the crimson and soiled rags sitting by his feet, piled up alongside emptied vials of every potion he could remember the name of. Kiss and Swallow did what they could to stop the worst of the bleeding. A full vial of White Honey sits nearby, just in case infection sets in. Geralt’s lessons whisper in the back of his mind. He _was_ listening; really, he was. But when the love of his life stumbled back in from a hunt, crimson and staggering, Jaskier’s hands shook and his speech stuttered.

A backwater town with no healers and a bard who tried his best to overcome the pulsing and insistent prodding of anxiety trying to seize and stop his heart; those are the things Geralt placed his life in. And now all Jaskier can do is sit by the Witcher’s bedside, doing his best to keep the feeling in his back and legs from being perched on the hard wooden chair for as long as he has, keeping a silent vigil over the man lain out before him.

He’s done it all before. It’s painfully familiar. Geralt’s job is a dangerous one. Jaskier has seen the scars. He knows the stories of every single one of them. Some of them, the fresher ones that stand out against his skin, are ones Jaskier has knitted himself. After the more demanding hunts, when Geralt is still acrid from potions and venom and struggling to measure his breathing, Jaskier sets his nimble fingers to the man’s skin and knits back what he can. He makes sure those scars fade as much as they can. He’s seen the others; ones that Geralt has stitched himself, or deft-handed healers have tried to, and they sit as raised mangled knots on his skin. He flinches at every pass of Jaskier’s hand over them when they’re alone and bare and Jaskier tries not to cry at how Geralt turns his eyes away from him.

All the gentle words Jaskier could lull to his Witcher only did so much. He’s already trudged through a lifetime of people hissing curses and vile words at him. They’ve done more damage than any manticore sting or the slash of a griffin’s talon.

It’s almost sombre, the watch he keeps over Geralt as he rests. Jaskier’s hands are still pink and scrubbed clean of the Witcher’s blood, but the acrid metallic smell stings the inside of his nose. It lingers. It always does; staining the floorboards and the walls around them, reminding Jaskier that his wolf could have died. And no matter how many times Geralt’s hunts turn against him, and he wanders back to camp or to their inn’s room battered and bruised and bleeding, Jaskier’s breath catches in his throat.

He draws a breath, ignoring how it still trembles and shakes. His hips start to ache from the chair, and he desperately wants to move. But he needs to keep still and keep vigil. Geralt’s chest lifts and falls and he almost looks peaceful. The last of the venom stinging his veins seems to be making its way out on its own. Hopefully White Honey doesn’t have to be used; undoing the work of Kiss and Swallow is one of the potion’s harsher conditions.

Jaskier bites down on a groan as he allows himself to sit forward, reaching out to set his hand on top of Geralt’s. His skin is still warm and speckled with sweat; and even though he doesn’t turn his hand and links their fingers together, Geralt is just _sleeping_.

Jaskier’s throat bobs. Gods alive, he hates this. He hates the waiting. Geralt will sleep until the sun rises in the morning, and then they’ll be out of this shithole backwater town and its people; people who lied to Geralt’s face about there being drowners nearby, who didn’t even bother to help Jaskier haul him upstairs and tend to his wounds.

If he was Geralt, he would have taken one look at that Aeschna, turned around, and left whatever-this-town-is-called to its fate. They can keep their gold and silver.

Jaskier threads his fingers through Geralt’s, just holding on like an anchor. His tongue sits heavily in his mouth, and words scratch through his throat as he tries to speak. “When you wake up,” he rasps, dusting his free hand up along Geralt’s bare arm, watching his skin bloom with heat and colour at the familiarity of the touch, “we’ll go somewhere warm. Just you and me. I think the weather is still pleasant in Toussaint. It will still be wine season there.”

Rambling helps. And it’s painfully obvious to him that he’s talking to himself. Something has lured Geralt far down beyond his reach; a meditating trance does the same, but at least with the slight brush of Jaskier’s fingers or hands on him, he can lure Geralt back. But healing sleeps are something else, something beyond his control. And he _fucking hates it_.

He pushes on, mainly for himself, because he can’t cope with the quiet anymore. Or the soft mumblings of the people downstairs. He wants to go down there, scream at every single one of them for not helping. But Geralt needs him here. So he swallows what he can. “An academy friend of mine has a villa just outside Beauclair,” he mumbles. “He doesn’t use it when he’s at Oxenfurt, so it will be free. We can go there and wait until autumn. Then,” Jaskier leans forward, almost on the bed itself as he lulls his words to his Witcher, “we’ll go home, to Kaer Morhen, and you can rest. We can stay there for as long as you need, even into the spring. I’ll send a letter to Oxenfurt, I’ll tell them that I won’t be available. I want to stay with you.”

That earns something. A small twitch of Geralt’s brow. And it’s enough to have a small smile curling along Jaskier’s lips. It’s something to tell him that Geralt is wading towards wakefulness; that he’ll wake up and they’ll leave this shithole of a town and it’s even shittier people and go somewhere warm.

As soon as Geralt’s brows knit together, his expression slackens again. Sleep laps over him and drags him back done, not quite finished with him yet. It’s alright. Geralt needs to heal as much as he can. And when they get to Beauclair for the last few days of summer and Kaer Morhen for the winter they’ll both lounge for as long as they like, letting the world drift by and be completely unbothered by it.

For now, until Geralt blinks awake and they can leave, he’s left with his promises.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos & Comments gladly appreciated!


End file.
